


Fall of Praxus

by QueenAng



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-21 20:53:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21062597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenAng/pseuds/QueenAng
Summary: Praxus falls, and Jazz finds out some things have changed between him and Prowl.





	Fall of Praxus

Jazz wasn’t around to see the bombing of Praxus. He was stationed in Kaon, alongside Optimus Prime, fighting back the worst of the Decepticons’ melee fighters. Between the alarms that seemed to constantly blare to signal attack and the rowdy bunch of fighters they had accumulated, there was rarely ever silence. But when news came through about the bombing of Praxus, for the first time, there was something close to it.

Everyone had to read that message a few times for it to sink in. Praxus was gone. A neutral colony, but full of well-trained Enforcers that would have been an asset to either side and _so many sparklings_ sent there from war-ravaged cities to avoid the war.

Jazz didn’t realize that anyone was staring at him – and they all were – until Optimus spoke. “Jazz?” His voice was quiet.

Jazz waved him away before he could step closer. “I’m good, OP,” he said, only the faintest hint of static in his vocalizer. “Think I just need to lay down for a bit. Processor’s feeling a bit fuzzy.”

He stepped out of the rec room quickly, and was halfway down the hall to his suite when he realized someone was following him. Optimus put a servo on his shoulder to halt him.

“Look, mech, I know I’m second, but the last thing I want to hear right now is the death toll or—”

“There’s a transport leaving for Praxus in twenty kliks,” Optimus said. “We don’t have many supplies to send, so there’s plenty of room for you as well.”

Jazz felt some of the tension that had built up leave his frame.

Before Optimus could leave, Jazz softly asked, “And Prowl?”

Optimus paused. Jazz could practically see his processor spinning. “There has been no word on many of the officers,” he said.

Jazz only nodded.

* * *

Jazz tried to avoid looking at the destruction as they entered the rubble that was Praxus. Three other mechs, sent to help ‘recover’ (‘search for the dead’ went unsaid), remained silent on their side of the transport as well.

Whatever conversation had been carrying on at the station halted as soon as mechs saw Jazz step off the platform. His spark sunk as he watched them briefly stare, recognize him, then hang their helms down. He hadn’t dared to hope Prowl survived, but what little hope had involuntarily accumulated shattered. His frame felt as cold as nonliving metal.

He had barely made it to the steps of the compound when the doors opened and a dark mech heavy with battle-grade armor stepped out.

“Jazz,” he greeted, dipping his helm. “We did not expect the Prime to send his second-in-command. It’s an honor to—”

“Prowl.” Jazz didn’t have time for formalities. He couldn’t draw enough information from his processor to recall if he had met this mech before. “Where is he?” _Or have you found his frame yet?_

The mech seemed to realize he wasn’t there for formal business and some of the tension left his own frame. “His habsuite has been turned into a shelter for wounded mechs at this time, so—”

“_Where is he?_”

A long vent left the mech. “He has taken up staying in one of our medical wards.”

“He’s injured?” _Not dead_. The words kept repeating in Jazz’s mind. _Not dead. Not dead_.

Again, the mech paused. “No, not him.”

Jazz surged forward and grabbed the mech by his collar plating. He was tired, and scared, and stressed, and absolutely done with administrative mechs who tried to talk their way around the truth rather than getting to the damn fragging point. “_Where is my conjunx_?”

“Ward 34, second floor, red door marks the ward rooms.”

Jazz let him go and surged through the doors into the compound. The few walking mechs wandering around moved from his way without second thought. He could faintly hear the mech downstairs now telling off guards questioning _what the hell_ Jazz was doing.

It didn’t take him long to locate Ward 34, marked with a characteristic red like the mech said. Jazz felt the strength that had jolted through his weakened frame drain at the sight of it. A servo pressed against the door – locked. Jazz could hack it without issue within moments, but there was no point.

He pressed his helm against the metal. “Prowl?”

He heard shifting around from inside. Prowl was up, and moving, and _alive_. The door opened faintly with a hissing creak, and Jazz found himself facing Prowl – still black and white, both doorwings held out, two optics glowing brightly, all limbs attached and articulating, a few faint scuffs in his painting and fresh welds all that marked his frame.

Jazz pulled him into a hug without thinking. Prowl wasn’t one for physical affection, especially not within the gaze of others, but he didn’t protest. He was warm, his engine purring, _alive_.

Prowl pulled back with a slight tug, and Jazz let him. “Come in slowly,” Prowl said. “He’s wary of strangers.”

Jazz stepped into the room and paused when the words caught up to him. “Who?”

The room was lit with a flickering light. There was a single window shuddered with three hanging curtains that blocked out the light of the fires burning on the rubble of Praxus. A number of data-pads were stacked on the single table beside a tiny medical-grade berth.

Prowl moved over the berth and tugged softly at the pile of berth covers by the pillows. “You can come out,” he said.

The blankets shifted, and a single blue optic peered out into the room. When it landed on Jazz, the pile shifted and the optic vanished beneath them again.

Prowl was frowning. He knelt down beside the berth and rested a servo on the back of the pile. “This is Jazz, my conjunx,” Prowl murmured. “He’s here to help protect you as well.”

After a momentary pause, the blankets shifted again, and this time an entire helm was revealed. A little sparkling, perhaps only a few vorns old at most, stared at Jazz with wide blue optics. He looked like Prowl – with black and white plating and a stunning red chevron. There were fresh welds along his left shoulder, and when he moved further from the pile of blankets, there was the sound of grinding gears in his abdomen.

He immediately latched on to Prowl’s servo, though his optics did not leave Jazz. Prowl picked him up and the sparkling buried himself in Prowl’s arms, nearly vanishing from sight.

Jazz’s processor was whirring. “A sparkling,” he said. “Don’t remember being gone _that_ long.”

Prowl’s smile was wry. “His name is Bluestreak. He was pulled from the rubble after the first bombs dropped.”

“By you, I take it?”

Prowl didn’t disagree.

Jazz liked sparklings just fine. He figured he wouldn’t actually have one until after the war was over – or, at least, the worst of the war was over. He had never actually brought it up to Prowl, because it seemed pointless. The next logical step in their relationship would be sparking.

There had been plenty of times during the aftermath of brutal battles that Jazz had gotten through by imaging life afterward. He and Prowl, together, in a bustling city with no threats weighing down upon them. Coming home to Prowl, curling up next to him, getting him sparked up. There had been a few nights, stationed far away from Prowl, that the thought of making Prowl heavy with his sparklings had gotten him off.

“I found him in the rubble of the city center after the first bombs,” Prowl continued. “Ratchet’s quick thinking saved him from bleeding out. He nearly lost the arm. He hasn’t taken kindly to being left alone since.”

Jazz stepped forward until he could see those blue optics peering out from Prowl’s arms. The sparkling shrank further down in Prowl’s grip.

“Seems to like you,” Jazz said.

“We can’t locate any family members,” Prowl continued. “He will be sent to a foster home as soon as everything is sorted.”

“Why?”

“Because we cannot locate any other family—”

“No, I mean.” Jazz met Prowl’s gaze. “Why don’t we just keep him?”

Prowl started, and Bluestreak made an unhappy noise at being jostled around. “You would be okay with having sparklings?” he asked slowly.

Jazz couldn’t help but laugh. “I thought I would have to convince you.”

Prowl frowned. “It won’t be me,” he said. “Longblade handles the foster system.”

Jazz made a dismissive gesture. “Don’t you worry about that, babe.”

* * *

Optimus picked up his comm on the second ring. “Jazz?” he said questioningly. “I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. Is Prowl—?”

“Yeah, yeah, he’s good. Actually, I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Of course. Anything you require.”

“Well, there’s this mechling—”


End file.
